Tuesday, July 5, 2011

I'm not naming names

The last few books I've read--and no, I will not tell you titles or authors--have been, to put it mildly, boring. There was really little "there" to make me want to continue to turn pages. I did, of course, because I often find myself possessed by a morbid curiosity about what fell fate will come to the characters; but for the most part they were "ho hum" sort of things.

Which makes me ask: how did these things, being dull, get published in the first place? Was their query so massively awesome (or a lie) that the agent and publisher said "Quick! We gotta have this! This dude (or girl) is the next friggin' Mark Twain!" Or is it that the publisher just had a slot to fill and they randomly reached into the pile of slush and pulled out "a winner"?

Beats me. But I have to tell you, if going by my own experiences is any lesson, it has to be blind, random luck. Truly, the book was the epitome of "meh," and you know what that means. I hadn't been so disappointed since I read some truly awful Poul Anderson sci-fi (or what was supposed to be sci-fi) back when I was a younger man.

I know, this post really doesn't go anyplace, it was just a passing thought I had that I figured I'd let out to the crowd. Don't kill me, ok?

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